


Schrodinger's Laundry

by Trill



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Magical Boarding School, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 06:12:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trill/pseuds/Trill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John comes in from practice a bit sore, and Sherlock offers a hand. Then a mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Schrodinger's Laundry

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Johnlock Challenges Gift Exchange, one of my favorite fandom traditions, for Ouranonox. They wanted John with magical powers, smut, humor and an AU universe. Hopefully, this delivers. 
> 
> (Also, this was my first time writing anything explicit. Gaaaah.) 
> 
> Hopefully, it suits. Thanks to Sadie for being my readthrough beta, much appreciated.

The door creaked open and then closed itself. Sherlock rolled his eyes, not looking up from his book, “Invisibility, and level two, if that. I bet if the overhead light was on, you'd still be casting a shadow.” 

In response, a pillow from the opposite bed struck him, sending the papers beside him flying. 

“Really? John. Really.” Sherlock looked up, “Poor showing, all around.” 

“Shut up.” John laughed, and reappeared on his side of the room. He'd just come from practice, and he's still wearing his gym clothes- shorts that were just a tad too long on his short frame, and a loose t-shirt, in the solid green of their school's color. He's soaked from head to toe, and for the first time that evening Sherlock realized that outside the comfort of their dorm room, it was raining. 

Their room is tiny, with a narrow twin bed pressed against each wall. There's a long desk underneath a window that overlooks one of the smaller courtyards, and two tall wardrobes by the door- one on each side. John's side is spotless- his side of the shared desk has his text books neatly stacked, his pens all in a proper pen cup, and his folios carefully color coded. His bed is made (unless he's in it), and there's a small pile of mystery novels hidden under his bed, where most of the other boys hide their pornography collections. There's a few photos and school pennants tacked to his wall, but it's all orderly. 

Sherlock's side, on the other hand, is a disaster. His bed resembles a nest, pillows and duvet askew in whatever mess he'd left them in. His half of their desk is piled nearly half a meter deep in papers and books and scraps of thoughts he'd abandoned. His wall is dedicated to whatever has caught his fickle interest this week- from a glance, it appears to be the transmutations of Galileo and the work he'd managed in tying the solar systems movements to magical influences. Sherlock has a particular article pinned up, and it looks like a red pen has died on the page, whole paragraphs and words circled and marked 'WRONG' in Sherlock's pointy, slanted writing. 

Now, to look at the boy's wardrobes would tell a different story- John mostly lives out of his laundry basket, never bothering to hang up his clothes or fold his socks away into the row of drawers. His dirty laundry lived on the floor, and clean laundry lived on the basket, until laundry day or the day he ran out of clean underwear. (They rarely coincided, Sherlock had come to realize, leading to John spending more than a few midnights in the basement laundry room, trying to convince the ancient washers to work. The dryers sometimes took three whole cycles to manage dry clothing.) (John had spent three months of their fourth year trying to perfect a drying spell. All it did was turn his socks pink and his pants bright red.) (Sherlock rather liked the red pants, he'd realized their fifth year.) 

On the other side of the room, Sherlock's socks had a system. His shirts were arranged by color. His trousers were nearly pressed and while he did only have the one coat, it was spotless. He had his laundry sent out, something John's family couldn't afford, and he kept his shoes polished. 

John grabbed a towel from the rack by the door, toweling off his blond hair. He was short- he'd never gotten that growth spurt he'd been promised by his mother, and at 18, it was probably too late for that- but he was well built, and years of rugby had given him muscle and strength. The t-shirt was plastered to his skin, and Sherlock gave him an appreciative look over the top of his book. “You missed a good scrimmage,” 

“Ah. Somehow, I imagine, they managed without me.” Sherlock unfolded his long limbs and stood. He stretched up, and his purple button down shirt rode up. His didn't have John's muscle definition, but he had his own beauty- his dark hair curled, his blue eyes cut, and his cheek bones- well, many a girl had developed a crush on him based on those alone. (The crushes usually only lasted until he opened his mouth, though little Molly Hooper still carried a torch for him despite being knowing him since they were firsties together.) 

“Somehow.” John quirked a grin at him, and tugged off his soaked shirt, “Did you even move this afternoon?” 

Sherlock took in those broad shoulders, and glanced down to his roommate's well-defined abs, “No. I had to finish the reading- some of us want to graduate.” 

“Oi! I'll graduate, same as you.” He grinned and turned to drop his shirt into the pile of dirty laundry beside his wardrobe, leaning over to do so. He could feel Sherlock's gaze on his ass, all too aware of the way the shorts were clinging to his body, “Maybe not at the top of our class, with you n' Irene in the running, but I'll get the diploma all the same.” 

“Ah, yes, thanks to some help.” Sherlock's lips quirked up into a smirk, and he took a step closer. 

“The only reason you passed Numerancy and Healing was thanks to me.” John looked over his bare shoulder at his roommate with a good natured roll of his eyes. 

“Mm. Yes, that's true-” He closed the gap between them with another step, and checked the door. It was firmly closed, and a whispered spell activated the soundproofing sigil they'd traced two years ago, when this had first began, “Private sessions, you know.” 

“I remember.” John shivered, and let out a soft hiss as Sherlock laid a cold hand on his hip, “How come your hands are always cold?” 

“Circulation troubles,” It had the cadence of an old argument, and Sherlock smirked as he drew John against him, “Sore?” 

“A bit, yeah. Boys are brutal on the pitch this time of year, trying to prove they can be first string next year.” John relaxed against Sherlock with sigh, “It's rather nice to know I won't have to bother with all that.” 

“You'll miss it,” He snorted dismissively, “Here. I can help with the soreness, at least.” Sherlock bumped him, gently, in the direction of the bed, “On your stomach.” 

John stretched out across his deep green duvet, folding his arms in front of him and resting his head on them. His toes curled in anticipation as his shorts were carefully pulled down and off. His pants were mostly dry- and still bright red, Sherlock noted with a grin. “Mm, you sure you have time for this, with all that studying you have to do?” 

Sherlock scoffed and moved to straddle John's knees. Cupping his hands, he whispered a spell to his palms and they warmed. He kneeled slightly above the smaller man, cracking his knuckles before he began, “Anatomy. This is the trapezius-” He worked his knuckles down John's back, digging in deep. He worked his thumbs into the tight muscles, carefully working out the knots. John let his shoulder sag with a soft sigh of content. 

“And here, this is latissimus dorsi-” His long fingers worked the tense muscles of John's back, moving lower, “And here, thoracolumbar fascia.” 

John's muscles relaxed with everything dig and rub of Sherlock's long, agile fingers, sinking deeper and deeper into the bed. “Mm don't think is what they mean when they say anatomy, Sh'lock,” 

“Think of it as a bonus lesson, then. Madame Prula was never much good at explaining muscular structure in terms of medicinal magic.” Sherlock sat back and admired the view, eyes lingering on the curve of his back and the thin band of elastic around his waist. 

“Just because she couldn't answer your questions about the effects of a binding curse in terms of the heart-” John groaned as Sherlock returned his attention to the small of his back, kneading out the tightness there, “Thas cheating,” 

“Hush.” 

It's too easy to fall quiet, his eyes half-closed and his body limp under his roommate's attentions. Sherlock's obsessive dedication to all things that interested him had, to his surprise, extended to all things John as well. After two years of- well, whatever this was- and with graduation on the horizon, he had to give thanks that Sherlock had never gotten bored. Sherlock had moved lower, to his upper thighs, and John is putty beneath his hands, letting out another low groan of appreciation. 

“Turn over.” Sherlock's voice is husky as he adjusted to allow John to roll over. He massages his upper thighs, avoiding the red pants and the thick bulge they've developed. He noted it with a small smirk, his eyes meeting John's just for a moment, a quiet promise passed between them.  
/  
“Mm, s'not fair, you're still in your shirt n' I'm-” John gestures, ghost of a smile on his lips. 

“Soon.” He promised, running his tongue over his lips. John was fascinating, and he made the most interesting noises. They'd developed a sound poroofing spell three months into their relationship, sneaking supplies from the herbology department to set it into the flimsy wooden door. Their hall was made up entirely of seventh years, the same boys they'd started at school with, but John had been rather embarrassed when they first started up.

John reached up, grabbed the front of his shirt and dragged him down into a crushing kiss. His lips were chapped and rough, but Sherlock didn't mind. His growing errection pressed into John's upper thigh, and he shivered as John's tongue pressed into his mouth. He slid a hand to John's neck, long fingers pressing gently to take his pulse. He broke their embrace and rested centimeters above John's mouth on his elbows, smirking, “Slower than usual, John.” 

“S'cheating, that.” John licked his swollen lips, a lazy smile forming, “You can't spend so long getting me relaxed-” He grinds up against Sherlock, hips moving up off the thin mattress, “And then comment on that.” 

“I just meant I'll have to work a bit harder.” He shifted, a knee on either side of John. One hung precariously close to the edge of the bed, and the other was pressed against the wall. He leaned down and nibbled delicately at the soft flesh of John's neck, tongue tracing the outline of the pulse he had just checked. The shorter man groaned, his hips bucking up against Sherlock. 

“God, you-” 

“Why thank you.” Sherlock smirked, eyes turned upwards at John as he moved lower, and lower. He scooted down until he was at the end of the bed, ass resting on his calves. He manipulated John's body, and then leaned over, hot breath just above the waist band of those damned red pants. 

John's breath hitched at he slid his fingers under the waistband, pulling the pants down to midthigh. Sherlock had made a mental catalogue of John's facial expressions over their years as roommates, and he was particularly fond of this one- the other man's eyes widened and completely focused on Sherlock's face, the tip of his tongue poking out from between his teeth, his lips warm and swollen. He was hard beneath Sherlock's hand as he took his shaft between those long fingers. 

His cock twitched, and Sherlock's lips spread into a knowing smirk, “So eager already, John?” 

“God yes.” He bucked his hips up again, and was rewarded with Sherlock's grip tightening. He sucked in a breath, and let it out in a slow hiss, head rolled back. 

Sherlock wet his lips and leaned over John, taking the head of his shaft into his wet, warm mouth and sucked, slow and hard. His tongue swirled and he kept one hand gripping the base of John's shaft while the other held his hips down. John squirmed, his hands flexing, resisting the urge to grab Sherlock, to pull him closer and grip his hair. The tall man pulled back, and licked his lips, precum beading on the head of his cock.

“Go ahead,” Sherlock jerked his head in the direction of John's hands, and his relief was palpable. From his position, he could see the bulge pressing against Sherlock's pants, his own cock standing at attention, slick with saliva and precum. When Sherlock bent his head again, John moved his hands to Holmes' thick curls, stroking the back of his head. His teeth gently grazed John, and he groaned, hips bucking up against Sherlock's palms. His curls brushed the base of John, and he jerked up. 

Sherlock's hand slid into his own trousers, gripping his own errection as John grunted with pleasure- and the man soon lost his words, just gasping words like “shit” and “oh god” and “Sherlock”, his fingers grasping into Sherlock's scalp, short nails digging into sensitive flesh. Sherlock's head bobbed up and down as he moved along the length of John's thick member, mouth hot and slick. John barely has time to manage a warning before his hips buck up and he's cumming, thick and hard into Sherlock's mouth. The taller man made a face and leaned over to spit John's load onto the floor, hitting a pile of laundry. 

John lay beneath him, panting as the last throes of his orgrasm washed over him, cock giving another twitch. His breathing is heavier than it was even on the rugby pitch, and Sherlock grinned at the sight of him, prone and weak beneath him. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and licked his salty lips.

“I think that laundry was clean.” John managed as he turned his head to look on the floor. 

“Then you should have hung it up.”


End file.
